


Elysian Dreams

by gracca_amorosa



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Fingerfucking, Gen, Self-Insert, that really gives away the mystery huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27662327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracca_amorosa/pseuds/gracca_amorosa
Summary: The Boatman sat at the stern with his oar drifting in the red water, holding it steady, and you sat at the prow, not wanting to move. He looked at you but made no move towards you, groaned a little and it shook something within you like a mountain erupting, rocks grating together, trees cleft in half. Eventually, not looking away, he fished a golden rope out of the couple fingers of water sitting stagnant in the bottom and fashioned a loop, throwing it over a post set at the edge of the landing. When he stood his oar stayed firm in the water. He stood above you and reached out his hand, and when you finally took it he pulled you to your feet.You didn’t let go, for a while. He stood beside you and let you hold his hand until you were ready. Then he helped you off the boat and shot down the Styx like an arrow.
Relationships: Charon/OC
Comments: 15
Kudos: 54





	Elysian Dreams

You’ve been trying to escape the underworld, afraid of dying even though you’re already dead. You’re very bad at it, being a delicate little human soul who really shouldn’t be trying anyway, but you do, and you die, and you try again. You do, you die, you try again. And you somehow, miraculously, get better at it. You start collecting armor, then better armor, then weapons like none you had seen before, some that even belonged to some of these fallen warriors that you are fighting off at every turn. You do, you die, you try again.

You find a door enscribed with a symbol you don’t recognize from your months (years? decades?) of trying to escape: a pouch with a skull on it. The room around you is quiet now, finally devoid of all attackers, and you stare at the symbol etched into the rough stone of the door. Your choices are move ahead or fall behind. You touch the door, and the symbol glows gold.

You brace yourself as you cross through the door, but it’s quiet in here too, so you let yourself relax. It’s dark, lighted somewhat by candles in sconces glowing faintly on the walls. There is enough light to see glinting piles of coin as you move slowly forward, then you see the jewels too, and scrolls piled high against the walls. You had stumbled into a vault, perhaps, though why one would be here in the labyrinth of all places you didn’t know.

From the far corner, something glows purple. Dark mist like a bruise floats out into the light and two points resolve themselves into eyes, you think - about a meter above your own, clouded by the mist coming from - a mouth?

The figure steps forward, gigantic in feel and form, face black in the shadows - no, a skull black from time and age. He wore a large, brimmed hat and was hung with so much gold that you wondered that he wasn’t weighed down by it. 

  
  


A memory came back to you: waking up standing on the shores of the Styx, you and ten or twenty others, all facing forward towards the Boatman. He stood at the edge with one hand outstretched and waiting for his fee, the other idly holding his oar. People - shades - began filing forward and dropping two coins into his palm. Some, ones that had died alone or hated, were turned away. The ones that got to board were occasionally offered his open hand to lift them into the boat, a deeply human nicety and one that struck you headily. You hesitated, though, looking back the way you came but seeing nothing into the distance, no way to escape. 

You were young when you died, you remembered that much, but the details were already leaving you. You stood just a bit away, clutching your two coins to your chest, knowing there was no other way but not wanting to go forward. But the Boatman waited, palm outstretched, and eventually you gave over your fare. When you hesitated at the lip of the boat he reached down his hand and you took it, felt its coldness, sat in the boat with the others. You did not know how long the boat ride lasted, but eventually you were at your destination docked at stone landing, and shades filed off one by one to head into a darkness that seemed thick, weighty. 

The Boatman sat at the stern with his oar drifting in the red water, holding it steady, and you sat at the prow, not wanting to move. He looked at you but made no move towards you, groaned a little and it shook something within you like a mountain erupting, rocks grating together, trees cleft in half. Eventually, not looking away, he fished a golden rope out of the couple fingers of water sitting stagnant in the bottom and fashioned a loop, throwing it over a post set at the edge of the landing. When he stood his oar stayed firm in the water. He stood above you and reached out his hand, and when you finally took it he pulled you to your feet.

You didn’t let go, for a while. He stood beside you and let you hold his hand until you were ready. Then he helped you off the boat and shot down the Styx like an arrow.

  
  


“I remember you,” you say, and in response he inclines his head and rumbles, shaking dust from the stones around you. You take a moment to look around, glad you didn’t have a heart to beat too loudly or breath to catch in your throat. When you look back he hasn’t moved, his chiton and cloak swinging gently in a breeze coming from nowhere.

“Why are you… here?” you ask slowly, knowing it’s a stupid question but not knowing how to proceed. He didn’t seem to be able to speak real words, but to ignore him seemed impolite.

He gestures widely around himself at the piles of things, then points to himself with one ringed finger.  _ It’s mine _ . Then he points down to a little row of things on the ground, put there, you notice now, more carefully than everything around it. He points to a bag of coin on his belt, then at you. 

You peek at the things on the ground, a bit of food wrapped in parchment (safe to eat? unsure), bits of jewelry adorned with symbols of various gods. Prices in gold pieces were scribbled onto the stones in front of them. You count out a large mess of coin and took up a pendant in the shape of a wine glass, for Dionysus. You put it on. You don’t know why, really.

Charon huffs out something akin to a laugh, that you can feel in your feet and your legs.

“Purple’s my favorite color,” you shrug, and leave the Boatman behind.

  
  


You do, you die, you try again. The more you run through this labyrinth the more often you see Charon, wonder how he isn’t always busy ferrying shades here and there, don’t ask. You are always so glad to hear his grating moans after the bloodshed of the other rooms, and always take a moment to say  _ hello _ , and  _ thank you _ , and  _ I hope you have a good day, or night. _ You do ask, one time, if it was okay for you to sit and eat the parchment-wrapped gyro (safe to eat, though still somewhat concerning). He pauses for a moment, long enough for you to start moving away, but before you can leave he moans out a little mist and nods, and you can feel it in your hands.

He points you to a large sack that seems filled to bursting though you don’t know what with, and you glance between him and the sack as you edge towards it. It was almost as big as you were. You reach out with a hesitant finger and press, and are surprised to feel it squish down, the heady scent of fresh sheared wool hitting you a moment later. You turn and fall stiffly into the makeshift bed, stuffing the gyro into your face, enjoying the silence for the most part.

Charon stands beside you, leaning on his oar like a cane, looking out over the little bit of the Styx that runs through the room. Every once in a while he looks down to you.

“Should I go?” you ask, and the shake of his head is almost imperceptible, but he turns away from you, and you fall asleep.

  
  


You wake up some time later, you don’t know how long since there’s no way to tell, but you are rested. Charon is not beside you when you wake up, and you think he’s left you there with his wares, but you hear a rhythmic slosh coming from the Styx and see his frame, blacker than the shadows, leaning forward and back and forward and back. The Boatman really is very big, you think, and then:  _ He’s a skeleton, calm down _ .

You walk over to him as he sits on the pier near his boat, and almost turn back around when you see him. His hat is still on but his gold collar is off, ties in the back of it hanging limply in the Stygian waters. His cloak is tossed over the lip of the boat and his chiton is rolled down around his waist, pulled up over his knees.

_ Oh,  _ you think. _ He’s not just a skeleton. _

His face is indeed skeletal, you knew that of course, but now you can see the line of his spine run down his back until it turns again into flesh. The tops of his collarbones are just visible, melting into skin as they spread out, and below that every bit of his skin is tattooed. A circlet of gold coins wraps fully around his neck and shoulders, across his stomach, wet now with red water, his boat done only in lines. Coins and oars are scattered around the rest of him, the only clear places are below his elbows and below his knees, which one again melt into black bone.

He looks up at you from what he’s doing, and once again you’re very glad you don’t have a heart.

He looks at you as he runs fistfuls of black wool into and out of the Styx, scouring them of their latent vegetation. To one side of him is a pile of wet wool, the other a bag similar to your makeshift bed. He pushes the bag behind him, holds out a hand. You take it, feel the lanolin slick against your palm, and he lowers you down to sit. He is silent, of course, and you are silent too, mostly because if you speak you’re afraid you’ll make a fool of yourself. For something to do, you reach behind and get out fistfuls of wool, sliding them in and out of the water.

The two of you find a rhythm, and you sing a work song your mother taught you. Charon looks at you, and you don’t look at him, you look anywhere but where his eyes should be, and you sing.

Finally, you get to Asphodel. It’s not what you expected, and you die. But Charon is there again, his little hoard of wealth a cool island in the boiling sea. There is no wool here to wash but there is conversation now. After that first time in Tartarus, helping Charon with his work is just what you do, and liked doing. It was a nice reprieve from the murder.

You stack scrolls in neat, sorted piles and tell him about the chambers you’ve passed through. You place his wares on little stools to get the food, at least, up off the ground, and tell him some of your memories from before, from life. He rumbles every so often to let you know he’s listening, asks questions sometimes as best he can with pointing and gestures.

Toward you, toward your weapon, toward the door behind:  _ Was it very difficult this time? _

Toward you, toward himself, toward a pile of riches, putting them in smaller piles:  _ Today we will sort these like so. _

Toward your head, toward your heart:  _ Are you okay? _

This last one is new, and he kneels down beside you while you’re sat sorting coins, presses his cold finger to your forehead, then his cold finger to your chest. Without really thinking you grab his bangled wrist and hold his hand there against you. You look from one purple eye to the other.

“I wish I could kiss you,” you say. Panic sets in, and you scramble up and run towards the next chamber. You look behind just once as the door closes behind you, see him sitting where you left him, looking after you.

You try to keep your conversation short and formal after that, but Charon does not. He takes to putting a hand on your shoulder when you do a good job, a hand so large that could probably encircle your whole neck easily. You try not to think about that, not from fear but small arousal. You don’t think that was something you learned in your living days. He starts standing a little closer, sitting a little closer, so close sometimes a cool thigh will touch yours and you scoot away, but your whole body is throbbing. You fight, you die, you fight again, you try desperately not to flirt with a Stygian boatman who casually, constantly, flirts with you. You know what happens when mortals and gods, chthonic or otherwise, become intimate.

_ He’s a skeleton _ , you remind yourself, but then you see the long black wings tattooed on his broad back, just below his shoulder blades, see the muscles rippling as he stands in the water and washes bolts of fine linen.  _ Fuck _ , you whisper aloud, and the Boatman angles just slightly towards you, not looking, but you know he heard.

  
  
Elysium was cold compared to Asphodel, and lush. Peaceful, you might say, except for all of the monsters and fallen heroes. You are better able to handle yourself now, and find Charon’s shop easily enough. You pause outside the door, wanting to see him and wanting him to touch you even if it’s just an elaborate joke he’s playing. You want there to be a reason to leave him be, but there’s really not one.

Seeing Charon in Elysium makes the giant seem both more and less threatening at the same time. The space is wide open, there are no dark corners for him to skulk in, but he is so black and gleaming against the lush green that he dominates his surroundings. You turn your back to him because the sight is so heady it makes you dizzy.  _ Ah, fuck _ , you whisper, and behind you the grating sound of laugher runs up your legs and makes you thrum.

You shake your head and turn back towards him, and he raises a hand, crooks a finger, asking you to come to him. You do, without thought, throwing weapons and armor on the ground as you go. You stand in front of him in only a short chiton and wrapped pants, and he stares at you unmoving, leaning on his oar so he’s close to you

Without warning he reaches out and touches your head firmly, then your heart. Then lower, your stomach, stopping right above your pants. With shaky hands you undo your wrappings and let them fall to the ground. Charon tilts his head fractionally, lets his oar hang in the air beside him, undoes the lacing on his collar and drops it and his cloak to the ground next to your own clothes. Slowly he reaches up and plucks off his hat, putting it on your head, and you close your eyes as the cool leather touches you.

While your eyes are closed for that short second he reaches out and lifts you up, a hand at your throat and under you, places you on one of the pedestals of his shop. The hand around your throat overwhelms you, keeps you still, while two cold fingers slide inside you, pressing deep inside you, and you moan deep. His laugh rumbles through you as he moves his fingers inside you, his thumb finding your clit, and you wrap a hand around his outstretched arm to steady yourself, wrap a fist into his black chiton to press yourself forward, making him move deeper, faster. 

He makes no sound after that but he stares at you as you moan and writhe and beg him to keep going, his purple-black breath wreathing you and smelling of blackberries and rotting leaves more than anything. His hand slides up your neck, thumb pressing against your lower lip, sliding into your mouth, and you close your lips around it and touch the tip lightly with your tongue. He presses his whole body into you then, and the sensation overwhelms you, and you come, whole body shaking as he keeps you from falling off the pedestal.

You pant hard even though you can’t breathe down here, and he leans over you, purple eyes searching your face, white hair fanning out around you. You reach up towards him, ignoring the hand still at your neck, and kiss his forehead, his cheekbone, feeling the ridge where his teeth meet the bone. He beaks from you, presses his face into your neck, his purple mist warm against your body as it curls down and touches your skin through your chiton more thoroughly than fingers ever could. 

He slides his fingers out of you and you moan at the release. He presses a wet finger to your chest, to his own chest, down to your waist.

_ We should do this again sometime. _

**Author's Note:**

> look, ok. he's big and i love him. and purple's my favorite color.


End file.
